


Instability: Grey Areas

by scapegoat



Category: Avengers (Comics), Inhumans, Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Runaways (Comics), X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Ableist Language, Addiction, Alternate Universe - Hospital, Alternate Universe - Mental Institution, Alternate Universe - Race Changes, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, American Sign Language, Asexual character(s), Awkward Flirting, BAMF Nick Fury, Bigotry & Prejudice, Bisexual Character(s), Child Abuse, Chronic Illness, Deaf Clint Barton, Demisexual Character(s), Depression, Derogatory Language, Disabled Character(s), Discrimination, Doctors & Physicians, Everyone Has Issues, Everyone Is Poly Just Because, Everyone Needs A Hug, Existential Crisis, Fluid Sexuality, Fury's Angels, Gender Identity, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Genderfluid Character(s), Getting to Know Each Other, Heterosexism, Homosexual Character(s), Human Disaster Jessica Jones, Human Experimentation, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Intersex Character(s), Kink Negotiation, Long Lost/Secret Relatives, Matchmaker Kamala Khan, Medicinal Drug Use, Mental Health Issues, Mutant Experimentation, Mutant Growth Hormone, Nick Fury Knows All And Sees All, Nick Fury's BS Detector, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Pansexual Character(s), Past Relationship(s), Polyamory, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Nick Fury, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Reconciliation, Self-Acceptance, Self-Destructive Behavior, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Identity, Sexuality Crisis, Sibling Bonding, Speciesism, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt(s), Super Soldier Serum, Trans Character(s), Underage Drug Use, Unethical Experimentation, Withdrawal, established relationship(s) - Freeform, non-binary character(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-23 22:15:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6131833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scapegoat/pseuds/scapegoat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a move every bit as cliché as imaginable, the summer before starting high school right after their move to New York, one Clinton F. Barton finds himself in a mental institute for his sexuality. <strike>(Seriously? People still did that?!)</strike> It only gets worse from there when they find all sorts of other things “wrong” with him extending his stay.</p><p>While the company he finds isn’t as bad as he thought it would be, there is still the whole going to high school bit he has to deal with. Assuming their release is expected sometime in the near future.</p><p>
  <strike>Preferably before everyone turns eighteen.</strike>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Instability: Grey Areas

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing, and I make no money. 
> 
> Due to overused characters in the previous version and a slightly different plot now, the story has been rewritten and re-uploaded instead of just edited. ~~But it only had two chapters anyway...~~

Harold Barton is a man of simple pleasures. Had the wife and kids living on a farm _until_ the wife got a promotion calling for the family move to The Big Apple. As old fashioned as Harold was letting his wife stay at home using up all their money was one thing he couldn’t condone – Edith spent _her_ hard earned money on whatever the hell _she_ wanted. Moving to New York (from Iowa) meant she’d be making/spending more of her money.  
  
The company Edith worked for or used to work for, merged with Stark Industries hence the New York move.  
  
Because _he_ couldn’t spend his fat ass on their couch spending his wife’s money, he moved the butcher shop he owns to New York too. Sure, going from Iowa to New York was a pretty far distance to get some damn meat, but he didn’t want to do much else. He didn’t want to do much period.  
  
The kids were another issue altogether. Charles, the eldest, was everything Harold looked forward to in a son. When the kid got tough and decided to talk back with his smartass mouth he got what was coming to him, but other than that he was a good son. A son you could openly brag about to damn near anyone. A straight-A student popular with the ladies, loved by all his teachers yet wasn’t a kiss-ass. He applied for Empire State University – or ESU – anticipating the company merger so one way or another he was getting to see New York. The only difference was now he didn’t have to pay rent on an apartment since he was living with the family.  
  
Now Charles preferred to be addressed as Barney, no doubt due to his baby brother’s first words, but Harold wasn’t having that. Charles was his birth name dammit – everyone else under the fucking three suns could call the redhead Barney, but he would always call his son by his given name.  
  
_Then_ there was Clinton: the younger son. Due to Clinton’s high level of stupidity, the boy went deaf at age six – right around the time he started first grade. There was a saying or whatever that parents stopped having children after they conceived their perfect child. Well, they got pretty damn close to perfect with Charles then managed to take several step backwards with Clinton.  
  
Clinton was the polar opposite of Charles: stubborn, impulsive, lacking in common sense, but none of these were as bad as the _obsessions_. The damn _doll_ collecting (Edith not only _accepted but encouraged_ ), the archery ~~(perhaps the only interest the brothers shared),~~ the anti-social behavior, the evident attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder? Clinton, age fifteen – late bloomer, was hitting puberty. One parenting book said it is perfectly normal for children to be late bloomers, but normal is one word never used in association with Clinton. He stared a bit too intently at the puberty books passed down from his brother like the pictures and words made little sense to him. Charles hit puberty at twelve much like his father did and his father’s father and things along those lines. Harold didn’t want to give the kid a damn book, but Edith insisted. Getting books for puberty, what a crock of shit, it’s like getting a book on drinking. These things happen naturally! No fucking books required. With the kids only six years apart it didn’t make sense getting another book for Clinton. One book was a waste of money as is.  
  
The fact remained: Clinton was far from normal. Didn’t matter how many MRIs said otherwise, those stupid things were known to miss stuff. Charles’ first kiss was age seven, his first girlfriend at age thirteen, lost his virginity at fifteen. Exhibits of normal adolescent behavior, shit an old man can be proud of (overlooking his taste in women). Unless he’s keeping shit secret (a giant red flag in the Barton household) Clinton’s never had his first kiss.  
  
Back on the farm, the boys shared a bedroom and according to Charles, Clinton didn’t masturbate. Honestly, Harold didn’t find fault in that no one would willingly _want to_ do that when they shared a room. Plus, seeing as how he didn’t hit puberty there wouldn’t be any reason to. Clinton has a bedroom to himself now so he could be doing it, though Harold _knows_ he isn’t.  
  
It had only been four days since they moved to the Bronx. Sure, Stark Industries’ main building was Manhattan but – traffic notwithstanding – it was about a half-hour travel. ~~And there was no way in hell they were getting a place in Manhattan. Snooty, uptight Manhattanites were not something he wanted to deal with regularly.~~  
  
Charles was in the living room reading the _“Hey, You’re Deaf. So Now What?”_ book they purchased to be able to communicate with Clinton. (So they got it about seven years after the blond became deaf? It was the thought that counts!) “Where is your brother?” The redhead glances up from the book, jerks his thumb toward the direction of the blond’s room, then looks back down at the book attempting to make signs. “Good. Edith, get in here.”  
  
Huffing, his wife trudged into the living room with a dish towel in her hands. “Do we need Clint here as well?” She asks putting the towel on the counter.  
  
“No, this is about him.” Charles perked up at that. “I believe something is not right with him.” Edith blinked at him. “He doesn’t show an interest in anything. He’s at the age where he should show an interest. Is he hiding it? I’m no homophobe so I’d be okay if he were queer. There’s no pressure since we’re gonna get grandkids out of that one.” He jerks his thumb at Charles. “Besides, the shop next door is run by queers. They bring in customers and keep the sidewalk clean, so they’re alright in my book. Do you think he’s queer? There literally cannot be any other option—”  
  
The blonde tilts her head, “ _seriously_? You called me in here to discuss our _fifteen-year-old_ son’s sexuality? Is that— _are you serious right now_? So what if he hasn’t shown an interest yet? He can just be shy.”  
  
“Doubt it.” The redhead threw up his hands at the glares he receives. “Just saying he might be gay. He looks like me so getting girls isn’t the issue.” Both his parents roll their eyes at that. “The end of the year party my friends through had the hottest age appropriate girl hitting on Clint. He’s either so awkward it didn’t register or so gay it didn’t faze him.”  
  
“Really Barney—”  
  
“But wait, there’s more. I showed him the pics of one of my friend’s girlfriends, and he just shrugged it off. _Shrugged it off_! Her tits were huge. Any semi-hetero dude would have responded in some way.” His parents exchange glances at that. “So you two should think about that. _Oh_! That reminds me. I saw this commercial for some program that ‘treats’ teens with mental issues.”  
  
“Clint’s sexuality is not a mental issue.” Edith spat.  
  
“You never know, remember back in the day they had those ‘pray the gay away’ camps?” Edith sighs massaging her temples, “they sent my cousin to one. It didn’t work, but he met his husband there. We went to his wedding four years ago.” Edith remembered that fondly, Clint looked adorable in his little purple tuxedo. “We could be helping him. Besides, even if the gay thing isn’t a mental issue the other things sure as hell are. Remember the clinic we sent him to that said they needed a second opinion? Do we want our child starting high school with a giant target on his back? New York waited two whole years to legalize same-sex marriage.”  
  
“And the rest of the fifty states waited four. You’re not striking a proper argument, Honey. If Clint isn’t interested, he isn’t interested. You can’t make him interested.”  
  
“You’re right. I can’t make him, but I can damn sure try. It isn’t _normal_ for him to be disinterested. We saw a movie the other day with a sex scene, and he barely batted an eye. Didn’t even look uncomfortable, just confused. No word on any wet dreams or waking up screaming because of morning wood. I don’t know how many ways I can tell you it’s not normal behavior.”  
  
“I’m still stuck on the part where you let our fifteen-year-old son watch pornography!”  
  
“Basic father and son bonding experiences.” Edith gapes at him. “Charles, find the damn program then sign your brother up. If he comes back socially acceptable, from a minimum of three different sources, I’ll let the issue drop. But if at least _one_ quack says he’s abnormal—”  
  
“You’ll what? Banish him from the family? And how is it fair that you need _three_ doctors to say he’s alright but just one to say he isn’t?”  
  
“Fine! If _two_ quacks don’t think he’s normal, we’ll fix him. He’s our son and when family hurts or needs help you fix them.”  
  
“He doesn’t need fixing!”  
  
“Found it!” On the phone that materialized out of nowhere (because he did not have it beside him a minute ago and he hasn’t budged in ten minutes), Charles looks up hospitals dedicated to mental health. The commercial the redhead saw was for an AIM hospital located in Manhattan (like most good hospitals). They also accept walk-ins which is a good thing because Harold wants to do this now and he has work in the morning, as does Edith and they aren’t taking a day off unless it’s something serious.  
  
Clinton may not be book smart but he can read people like it’s a profession, bullshitting with the boy isn’t the best approach so they’ll have to be blunt. It’s the manner the blond responds to better anyway.  
  
While they’re at it, with Edith’s new job giving the kids some long overdue health insurance, Clinton might as well get a full body checkup too. He starts high school in September, so it’s best he gets vaccinated before the rush of unprepared parents emerge.  
  
Harold hopes Edith’s insurance covers Clinton’s hearing aids. He hardly heard anything with the pair he has— _had—_ they broke during the trip over. None of them were proficient enough to communicate with him through ASL, so writing was their only source of addressing him. His old hearing aids were about eight years old, but hearing aids are expensive as shit and not truly a necessity making them low priority.  
  
Knocking on the door is pointless. Clinton is not the type of deaf person who can only hear you when you’re screaming at the top of your lungs. He can’t hear for shit regardless of your volume, and no one’s losing their voice trying to speak to him. Instead, Charles texts his little brother telling him of the doctor’s appointment and for him to get ready.  
  
The blond doesn’t respond but five minutes later he’s all dressed looking as disinterested as usual. That had to be an issue in itself, right?  
  
↕ ↕ ↕ ↕  
  
The trip to the hospital was as quiet as always, attempting to engage Clinton in conversation seems to be a waste and the others already said what they had to so the car ride is silent.  
  
When they arrive, the doctors almost immediately greet them. In past experiences of the past twenty years having two accident prone, overly curious children even trips to the emergency room don’t warrant this type of quickness. None of the nurses speak— _use—_ sign language, but no words are needed when they hand Clinton the dreary yellow hospital gown.  
  
The doctor – name tag/badge or whatever reading _Killian_ – takes Clinton to get a hearing test first. Barney elects to go with him (more like the parentals forced him to go while they speak to a different doctor about other matters that probably concern him hence them shooing him from the area).  
  
Killian tells him Clint somehow became eighty percent deaf _in both ears_. It was probably due to neglect because Barney could swear Clint’s hearing got worse over the years but didn’t pay it any mind. Hell, he didn’t get any hearing aids until a full year after losing his hearing. Unless he could never hear and put on one hell of a front. Bad enough Clint was a slippery little fucker, adding his inability to hear clearly? Barney was surprised he had a social life growing up.  
  
But they grew up in Waverly, Iowa – population of about 10,000 or so? Everyone knew one another on their block, so if someone saw a lost Clint they’d return him easily. It happened more times than Barney can remember; as did the subsequent ass-whoopings. Him for losing his brother and his brother for running off in the first place.  
  
Clint must have spectacularly failed the hearing test if the doctor’s face was any indication. Next came the MRI, then the vision test he must have passed because the blond always had exceptional eyesight. Barney would say he lost one sense to level-up with another, but Clint’s eyesight was freakishly good from birth.  
  
Height – he’s about six feet and still expected to grow, weight – for his height he’s underweight, his blood pressure appears to be normal, though.  
  
Two more doctors entered the room looking over Clint, ignoring Barney’s existence.  
  
As long as they weren’t injecting him with anything Barney was fine. Headcase or not, Clint was still his baby brother and only brother to boot. Needless to say he’d be pretty pissed if somebody experimented on his brother with no prior warning. Especially, if Clint got a kickass superpower as a result.  
  
The siblings return to Clint’s original room seeing the parentals frown over various brochures. Barney isn’t sure of normal procedures within this place, but considering he’s the normal sibling he’s not surprised. “What’s the verdict?” He asks, although he was with Clint the whole time every test imaginable was given to him, no one spoke to Barney after the first hearing test.  
  
“They’re keeping him overnight.” The blonde says somberly, “something about inconclusive tests.” She walks over to Clint hugging him tightly. “And the hearing aids they ordered are coming overnight.”  
  
“Don’t coddle the boy. He’ll be fine.”  
  
Right, because they’re not leaving the minor in a _mental institute_ overnight. However, Barney likes his face without bruises and isn’t voicing that thought out loud. It’s about four and they brought him here around ten. Six hours of testing must mean there are numerous things wrong with him. Three hearing tests (each worse than the last), two vision tests, the blood pressure test, then they drew his blood, the list of things they did to him went on.  
  
He’d offer to stay, but he doesn’t want to. Although, if his parents _make him_ he has no choice in the matter. Unfortunately, he can’t stay (even if he wanted to, and to reiterate – he doesn’t) because visiting hours end at six.  
  
“We can’t leave him here alone.”  
  
“He’s not alone, he got plenty of other crazies to keep him company.” Edith groans at that, “besides we literally cannot stay with him. Not only do we have work in the morning but they’re kicking us out.”  
  
“He’s only fifteen! Aren’t there laws about this? Keeping him here without a guardian?” They both glance at Barney. “You can stay with him or stay in the waiting room.”  
  
“Mom, I don’t think I can wait in the waiting room all night. I got my phone on standby.”  
  
“They have phones for calling not for texting, he won’t be able to communicate.”  
  
“Like I said, he’ll be fine. It’s only one night, Charles will come back in the morning to see him.” At his father’s eyes narrowing, the redhead nods. Well fuck, there go _his_ plans to explore New York before school starts.  
  
↕ ↕ ↕ ↕  
  
His parents left, Barney left, and the doctors finally stopped scribbling things furiously on the whiteboard before they left. At 7:31 pm, Clint Barton finds himself staring blankly at the television with its shitty close captioning that probably doesn’t line up to what the characters are saying.  
  
He honestly should have known something was going on when Barney sent him that text earlier: _going 2 doc, b rdy in 5._ Before his hearing aids fried his mother did mention getting a checkup; followed by not having enough money for said checkup. Naturally, he didn’t think much of a doctor’s visit. He figured, after four years, he was finally getting that checkup. Admittedly, the checkup was thorough as hell. Once the family left, the white coats led him to the aptly named TMI (or _Teen Mental Issues_ ) Wing. Didn’t take long for him to realize he got screwed.  
  
The white coats looked down at him (literally), basically ignoring his presence other than to poke, prod, and point him in various directions. A second time. Bad enough they did these things to him with his parents around, it only got worse after they left.  
  
He may not have been able to hear and his lip reading skills were subpar but they never attempted to make any sort contact with him. Just spoke over his head. However, his subpar lip reading skills allowed him to understand a few words lumped together – like _selective mutism_ and _confused gender identity_. He saw that movie _“But I’m A Cheerleader”_ and if that was what his life was turning into he’d burn this area to the goddamn ground. It wouldn’t be his first act of arson and certainly not the last. He didn’t know what mutism meant but if it had anything to do with mute, as in being mute, it wasn’t as though he couldn’t talk it was he didn’t want to. At least, he wouldn’t talk now seeing as how he couldn’t hear himself.

A tall, bald brown-skinned man with an eye patch suddenly appears in Clint’s line of sight startling him. The man merely raises an unimpressed eyebrow in his direction; the eyebrow _not_ over his eye patch. Despite being in a mental institute, he hilariously and ironically is not making this up. The man in front of him has an eye patch over his left eye; not a cartoon-y or pirate-y eye patch either.  
  
Clint eyes the box in the man’s hand, then the man himself, then the box again. The man rolls his non-covered eye then opens the box revealing three different kinds of hearing aids, all black. A completely-in-the-ear-canal model he had before (and surprisingly didn’t lose), a receiver-in-the-canal model that looks like it’ll piss him the ever loving fuck off, then finally there is the behind-the-ear model.  
  
Without taking his eyes off the man, he cautiously takes the behind-the-ear model out of the box then carefully puts them in his ears turning them on. “—Good choice.” He hears the man, with the name-tag _Fury_ of all things, say nodding. “I’m Doctor Nicholas J. Fury.” He holds out his hand to which Clint hesitantly shakes. “I’m here for your evaluation.” Damn, already? It must have shown on his face because Fury chuckled lightly. “Relax kid.” Frowning, Clint nods. “Now, do you know why you’re here?” _Truthfully,_ he has an inkling even if he hadn’t read the doctor’s lips but no concrete proof backs his claim. It couldn’t be his grades. A stellar C student like him? Definitely not. Obnoxious penchant for purple? A little unusual but hardly worth the effort to call in professionals. Well, he’s out of ideas. He gives the man— _Fury_ —a minute shake of the head. “Alright, no problem. Now, I need to know can you speak?” Clint nods slowly. “Then you just don’t want to.” It’s not a question but Clint gives a half shrug all the same.  
  
Fury nods pulling a clicking pen from who knows where jotting something down on the clipboard that also emerged from thin air.  
  
As Fury wrote (probably about his lack of compliance), Clint glances around the room zeroing in on the empty bed he did not notice before. Then again, he did not notice Fury entering the room. Of course in a room this nice he’d have to share it. He’s no stranger to sharing a room. If he survived sharing a room with Charles “Barney” Bernard Barton his entire life (minus the four days they moved to New York), he could survive this. Hell, he could survive being in this place too.  
  
The empty bed had dozens of various books sprawled at the foot of it. Had the spines of the books been facing his direction he could have made out what the books were about but they were all facing the opposite direction.  
  
“Alright Barton.” Fury says, clicking the pen. “Your parents brought you here because they are concerned about your mental health.” Clint suppresses a snort at that. “You don’t look convinced, and honestly I don’t blame you.” What the hell? Was he projecting or did Fury have an all-seeing eye under his eye patch? “The ‘main’” He air-quotes, “reason for your visit is your lack of sexual interest. I had no idea we addressed that but...” He shrugs, “in any event your roommate had to vacate the premises and you may have to switch rooms depending on your answer.” Clint gulps. “Do you have a problem with a homosexual roommate?”  
  
Clint shakes his head furiously then pauses, “as long as he doesn’t have a problem with a deaf roommate.”  
  
“Fair enough. So, are you— _would you_ consider yourself homosexual?” Clint blinks at him. “You’d be surprised how many homophobic homosexuals come here. Ridiculous, I know, but true. Plus, your parents seem convinced you’re homosexual.”  
  
Of course they did. He shows no interest in the women they nudge him toward (or any women at all). It’s only natural they’d automatically assume he is interested in men. Clint sighs heavily. “Uh, I don’t _think_ I am...” He gestures vaguely with his hands, “I _thought_ I was. You know if you hear something enough times you start to believe it. But I’m no more attracted to men than I am to women.”  
  
“Are you attracted to either?”  
  
“Honestly? No.” Clint grimaces, “that sounds weird out loud.”  
  
“Not weird at all, you’re simply asexual from what I understand.”  
  
“I’m _what_?”  
  
“Asexual: otherwise known as the lack of sexual attraction to others. It isn’t a mental issue, it’s something completely normal. Mind you, most people will disagree.” Clint blinks at him. “You just said you’re neither sexually attracted to men or women, right?” A nod. “Trans, non-binary, genderfluid—”  
  
“I’m not too sure what those mean...”  
  
“Have you ever thought about anything sexual regarding yourself and another individual? Ever think of another person in a sexual manner?” Clint shakes his head, “there you go.”  
  
“Then I can leave?”  
  
“No. Unfortunately for you, your apparent and quite frankly _alarming_ antisocial tendencies are reason alone to keep you here. Couple that with your bouts of ADHD, PTSD, and OCD – you have to stay here until the specialist arrives in two weeks.”  
  
“ _Two weeks_?!”  
  
“Doctor Strange is a busy man, when he’s not in neurology he’s psychoanalyzing anything and everything. He only works at our hospital two weeks of the year. Needless to say you’re lucky you came in when you did. Now, if you don’t pass the evaluation in two weeks you’ll be here for another six months when he returns in January.” Clint gapes. “According to your parents, you start high school next month. Since they opted out of having you attend our built-in school, once your school day ends you’ll come back here. Or a different facility if they move you.”  
  
“Well shit.”  
  
Fury nods, “I agree. Would you prefer your roommate give you the rundown or want me to do it?”  
  
If Clint’s saddled with a roommate for two weeks, he might as well have the guy explain things. “You can let my roommate do it.”  
  
“Understood. I’ll send Wilson in so you two can chat.” Clint nods to Fury as the man leaves the room. Great. Two fucking weeks here – _at least_. Gone is a summer of reading and playing video games. He might get in some reading, but he was doubtful about playing video games; there didn’t appear to be a WiiU in the vicinity or any outlets.  
  
There’s a sharp knock on the door, and once Clint gets over the initial shock of being able to _hear_ the knocking he gulps then sits up straighter. After a few seconds of staring at the closed door, it opens and a head pokes through glancing around. They lock eyes briefly and before Clint can blink the head disappears.  
  
Not even two seconds later (no time to figure out what the hell that was), the head returns – attached to a body – with a book titled: _Sign Language For Everyone_. Fury wasted no time telling his roommate (assuming that’s the grinning boy’s identity) and said roommate doesn’t seem to have a problem with his impairment. He expected the confused, almost embarrassed look followed by murmuring (or yelling) an apology he couldn’t hear without hearing aids. He never expected this. No one attempted to sign with him upon hearing he’s deaf, even his family showed reluctance.  
  
Furrowing his eyebrows and flipping through the pages, the guy gestures to himself then clumsily signs the letters _S-A-M_ with his _left_ hand.  
  
Slowly, he signs back the letters _C-L-I-N-T._ Only his old man, teachers and mother, when he’s in trouble, refer to him by full name. Sam looks down at the book after each letter signed and when introductions ended they shook hands. Normally, the inner sadist within would let Sam suffer; however, they’re sharing this room for the next two weeks, or longer. The less they hate one another, the better. Besides, how can he hate someone willing to learn ASL to communicate with him? “I can talk.” Sam blinks at him.  
  
“Fury said—” Clint turns his head to the left then the right revealing both hearing aids. “ _Ah_. Yeah, okay. He never mentioned that.” He walks over to the bed putting all the books in a pile, “I’m still gonna learn sign language.”  
  
“What’s with all the books?” Sam glances over to him briefly with a small smile. He lifts one of the covers that has a shit ton of birds on it. Ornithology? Any - _ology_ meant “the study of” therefore a cover full of birds equals ornithology as the study of birds. Was this roommate thing assigned randomly? “You like birds?” Sam narrows his eyes suspiciously before nodding slowly. “Me too.”  
  
“Seriously?” Clint nods, “that’s cool. First time I ever had that reaction.” Sam picks up several books before walking over to Clint’s bed depositing the pile there. “I got plenty of books.”  
  
“How did you get so many books here? The doctors swiped my 3DS.” Not that he can charge it as there are no outlets in the room.  
  
Sam snorts, “hand-held devices are not _conducive_ to the delicate ‘healing process.’” It sounds like he’s reciting that from somewhere. “Phones, gaming systems—my ma kicked hell when they took my cell. We get ‘electronic time’ twice a week. I think, I’ve only been here five days.”  
  
“Five days? What are you in for?”  
  
Sam laughs leaning on the bed, “you make it sound like jail not that I disagree with you.” He shrugs. “I talk to and understand birds.” Clint blinks at him. “I know, _I know_. It’s weird. Useful, but weird. When I was eight, my sister and I were playing in the backyard when all of a sudden the ground starts shaking. I guess the universe decides an earthquake isn’t enough so I see a bright ass blue light before something knocks me on my ass. I must’ve blacked out because next thing I know I’m opening my eyes hearing voices, except no people are near me. The only creatures around were a couple of birds in the tree above me asking one another if I was dead. I was concussed, woozy and a little nauseous but I replied. Word spread overnight then I woke up with my bedroom full of chattering birds.”  
  
“Wow. The last bright light to knock me on my ass were fireworks that permanently damaged my eardrums when I was six.” Sam whistles. “I’m pretty sure I saw that movie _The Italian Job_ one too many times because that pretty much finished the job with my ears.”  
  
“Don’t you know you’re not supposed to try shit you see in movies?” Sam laughs hopping on the bed, “what are you here for?”  
  
“Evidently, my asexuality.” Sam nods slowly, “then there’s the post-traumatic stress disorder that came with me losing my hearing, my flagrant antisocial behavior, obsessive compulsiveness and non-existent attention span.”  
  
“Damn, what was that four things?”  
  
Clint counts on his fingers before replying. “Five? I think?”  
  
“It’s a bunch but hardly record worthy.” Clint did not know what to make of _that_. “One of the doctors, Schmidt or something, tried convincing my ma my sexuality was another reason for me staying here. She didn’t take that news too well and may have gone off on him.”  
  
“Your mom’s okay with it?”  
  
“Yeah, she tried setting me up with one of her friend’s sons.” He shakes his head smiling. “I’m only in here for her.” Clint furrows his eyebrows in confusion. “I’m not exactly subtle with what I can do, and it freaks people out – particularly ma’s co-workers. She’s not gonna get a better job or any job at all with a crazy bird whispering son. This ability isn’t going away, not that I’d want it to, but if being here makes people think I’m trying to _fix_ my issues and makes things easier for my mom...” He shrugs, “it’ll be worth it.”  
  
Clint isn’t sure he’d do that for his mother and is even less sure if that makes him a bad person or not. “Does your mom know about this?”  
  
“She knows, not too sure if she believes it though. I’ve always had a way with birds.” He shrugs.  
  
“The birds are pretty lucky huh?”  
  
Sam’s retort gets cut off by a knock on the door, without waiting for a response a police officer walks into the room. “Ms. Maria, I’m touched you’d honor me with your presence.” The cop rolls her eyes with a hint of a smile.  
  
“Not that I don’t enjoy your presence as well Wilson I’m actually here to do damage control.” Clint’s pretty sure she tilted her head on cue because the double doors jerk open almost violently and two other officers are half-dragging, half-carrying a thrashing teen down the hall. Honestly, Maria’s smirk frightened Clint a bit. “Meet your newest tenant.” Sam and Clint exchanged glances approaching the “window” in the room ~~(you’d think a place as nice as this wouldn’t skimp on things like actual windows)~~.  
  
Maria leaves their room and several other doors open revealing other “patients (?)” taking in the scene before them. “What the fuck are you staring at!?” The teen snaps. “Listen!” They crane their head to the left, “how much do I have to pay to get out of this shit situation?” They crane their head to the right, “this cannot possibly be an enjoyable job! Haranguing children on a daily basis?” The officers exchange glances at that. “You can sip maitais or whatever your drink preference is! Think of it as a paid vacation, two plane tickets to the Bahamas! I don’t belong here!”  
  
“Kid.” Maria interrupts, “how about you shut up for five minutes? If you truly don’t belong here, you won’t have any problem taking the necessary tests to prove that.” The kid glares at her. “Everyone back to their rooms.” The others reluctantly comply slowly returning to their rooms closing the doors behind them. “I know exactly where to put her.” The guards exchange questionable glances.  
  
Trudging behind the officers, Clint notices the bald man whispering to a gray-haired man sweating profusely. Ordinarily, you aren’t supposed to judge a book by it’s cover but the bald dude kind of looks like a douche ~~—no, not~~ ~~ _kinda,_~~ ~~he looks like a complete grade-A douche~~. Also, Maria said _her_ , right?  
  
The officers stop at the door at the end of the hall opening it. Inside, there’s a hooded teen sitting on the dresser in the corner slowly and scarily raking a nail file across their exceptionally pointy nails. “Maria, are you sure?” The officer on the right whispers releasing the girl as the officer on the left does the same. Maria nods.  
  
The bald man steps into the room sniffing dismissively. “She doesn’t get a room to herself?”  
  
“Everyone here shares a room Mr. Stane.” Maria replies.  
  
Stane looks her up and down with unmasked disdain, “surely you can make some kind of exception. We can work out a payment plan or—”  
  
“This is not a hotel room you can upgrade at your convenience. _Everyone_ shares a room, no exceptions, we’re firm believers in the buddy system.”  
  
Stane frowns, “Janet requires a lot of assistance.” The kid— _Janet—_ growls at him. “I’m not sure she can do that if someone else is with her.” Maria rolls her eyes. “I’m just looking out for her best interest—”  
  
“You mean to say you’re looking out for your wallet’s best interest.” Stane raises an eyebrow at the girl’s feral grin, “you’ll never get a dime out of the old man even if I’m out of the picture.”  
  
Maria’s eyes dart from Stane’s to Janet’s then back to Stane. “Listen, Mr. Stane, I understand your concern so why don’t you do your job and we’ll do ours?” Stane huffs. “Janet is in good hands.” The brunette rolls her eyes.  
  
“How can you be sure she’ll be fine? You see how hostile she is.”  
  
“You want _hostile_? I can show you fucking hostile!” The two officers grab Janet mid-lunge. The brunette lets out a manic laugh causing the sweating gray-haired man to dab his face with a handkerchief.  
  
“This is all my fault!” He sobs, “I encouraged this behavior.”  
  
As Janet’s eyes harden, Maria pinches the bridge of her nose. Compared to the stories of the day shift, the night shift is relatively calmer – usually. “How so? And what ‘behavior’ are you talking about?”  
  
Janet lets out a humorless laugh. “Why he’s talking about the way I dress, talk, and exist.” The brunette lolls her head back and forth. “Can’t schmooze with The Great Vernon van Dyne, and seduce his daughter when his ‘daughter’ doesn’t conform to gender binarism.” Stane has that look of disdain on his face again.  
  
Maria nods, “I see. I’m not a doctor...” She gestures to her uniform, “as you can tell. So I’ll ask this from an objective point of view. That’s the reason Janet is here?”  
  
“One reason of many.” Stane replies. “ _She—_ ” Janet’s eyes narrow, “has attention deficit hyperactivity disorder and neglects the medication provided. She’s terribly antisocial, highly defensive, quick-tempered, overly anxious, I believe I mentioned hostile—” Stane frowns tapping his chin, “I’m afraid if I list everything we’ll be here all evening.”  
  
Maria slowly turns to the other man, “anything to add Mr. van Dyne?”  
  
The gray-haired man opens his mouth to reply, but Stane interrupts. “I almost forgot the substance abuse.” He nods to himself, “make sure _Janet_ receives a drug test.” Janet glances at him with an unreadable expression. The guards are still holding the brunette, but _Janet_ is tiny. Past experience made Maria realize tiny people are incomprehensibly slippery. Speaking of realizations Maria makes a mental note to ask the brunette their preferred pronoun. She also makes a mental note to ask Fury what the hell was he thinking. Then a third mental note to figure out what to eat for dinner.  
  
“I’ll make a note.” Maria says in a clipped tone. Stane narrows his eyes, and the gray-haired man continues patting his sweat-soaked face. Maria almost felt sorry for the man; _almost_. “We’ll let the doctors diagnose Janet, if that’s alright with everyone. It is? Great.” Stane opens his mouth to argue, but Maria walks past him walking over to the hooded teen. “I think you’ve had enough with the nail file.”  
  
The only thing Janet sees beneath the hood is teeth: pearly, _sharp_ teeth. Maria clasps the nail file gently put in her hand. “Thank you. Mr. van Dyne, you have lots of paperwork to fill out.” The man nods still patting his face.  
  
“Janet, honey, I—”  
  
“Save it Vernon, this’ll be the worst publicity stunt your crony ever fabricated.” Vernon nods then follows Stane and Maria out the room. “I’ll be fine.” The guards exchange glances then release the brunette before leaving the room, closing the door behind them.  
  
“Being so bitchy must be exhausting.” A voice purrs.  
  
Janet flinches then stares wide-eyed at the teen who slowly removes their hood. “What’s wrong Sugar, _cat_ got your tongue?”  
  
“S-Something like that.” The _thing_ laughs gracefully sliding from the dresser. “Is _that_ contagious?”  
  
“My appearance?” An eye roll, “no, merely the finished product.” Janet raises an eyebrow. “Long story. I’m Greer.”  
  
“Janet.” Janet looks Greer up and down, “I’d shake your hand but...”  
  
Greer laughs then lifts a hand to eye level. “Stay on my good side and you’ll never know how sharp my claws are.”  
  
“For the record, my dad’s a scientist, so I know all about human experimentation.”  
  
Greer’s head tilts to the left. “Then your presence can’t be coincidental, can it?”  
  
↕ ↕ ↕ ↕  
  
When Clint wakes up in the morning a doctor (?) with the name-tag _Cho_ checks his vitals, he passed on what he figured were eggs but were _super_ runny and more white than yellow. He did, however, eat the cereal until he puked his guts out. His parents must have forgotten to tell the damn hospital he’s lactose intolerant. It’s also his fault for realizing he was ingesting actual straight from the cow’s teats milk instead of the fake shit he only gets during special occasions.  
  
The hospital writes down bold, underlined and in all caps: **SEVERE LACTOSE ALLERGY**.  
  
On Sam’s food tray there was a piece of paper that said _seafood allergy_. Last night, Sam showed him the bathroom. He doesn’t know how many other “patients” are here but for all of them to share one bathroom!? (Again, this hospital is nice as shit – why one bathroom? Was it some bizarre bonding ritual?) As he makes his way back to his room, which is at the front of the hall, the double doors [i.e. the only manner of entry/exit] open. He moves to the watching a doctor and a sobbing woman brisk past. Behind them is a little girl with white hair. The little girl glances up staring him dead in the eye while walking.  
  
Clint and the girl maintain eye contact until the people disappear into the room across from the one they put the yelling kid from yesterday. Shrugging, Clint goes back to his room.  
  
“You can’t seriously put her here!?” The woman shrieks. “She just found out her father died! Of course, she’s going to be withdrawn!”  
  
“Mrs. Hardy, the hospital is equipped to deal with grief as well. We need to keep her to observe her behavior. You told me Felicia was closer to her father than she is to you?”  
  
The woman sighs heavily, nodding curtly. “All the more reason for her withdrawal? She doesn’t—”  
  
“Let me interrupt you for a second.” The woman huffs. “Grief affects everyone differently. Right now your daughter is in a combined state of shock and denial.” The two women eye the white-haired girl. “In my professional opinion perhaps you should do some redecorating? Erase any evidence of her late father?”  
  
“You say this like it’s easy? Walter wasn’t just Felicia’s father. He was also my husband.”  
  
“Yeah...” The doctor shrugs, “however you don’t seem as affected as your daughter.”  
  
“How could you say that?” The woman sniffles. “I’m trying to be strong for my daughter’s sake, Doctor Frost. Do not think for a second I am unaffected by my husband’s death.” The doctor sighs taking out a package of tissue handing it to the woman.  
  
“Right.” The doctor sighs, “you’re just channeling your grief differently. Let us keep her here to run diagnostics. When she’s done grieving we don’t know how she’ll behave.” The doctor spares the girl another glance.  
  
“What are you saying? My daughter is harboring psychotic tendencies?”  
  
“I never said anything even remotely close to that.” A pause. “Does your or your late husband’s family have a history of psychotic breaks?” The woman shakes her head. “Interesting. Look, the majority of the staff are trained professionals. Everything we’ll do is protocol, the cause of post-traumatic stress disorder is not primarily characterized by physical trauma.”  
  
“Oh, uh, what?”  
  
“Never mind. Your concern is adorable but unnecessary.”  
  
“I have more than enough reason to be concerned! You just said _the majority_ of the staff are professionals!”  
  
“Well, duh, we have interns and residents.”  
  
“Who will be taking care of my daughter?”  
  
“I don’t know. That depends on what’s wrong with her.”  
  
“Nothing is wrong with my daughter!”  
  
“Let’s agree to disagree. You can argue all you want, but for one reason or another, you brought her here. No longer do you need to worry about your daughter’s well-being. Furthermore, if it’s any consolation I spent a few months in this same hospital, and look how I turned out.” The woman stares at her wide-eyed before bursting into tears. “So much for being strong.”  
  
The doctor rolls her eyes set to pat the woman on the shoulder when— _“Emma, don’t you even think about manipulating her!”_  
  
Freezing, the doctor grits her teeth. Damn, she thought Grey was off today. _“You try working a double and dealing with this bullshit then see if you’re not close to using your telepathy!”_  
  
She heard the redhead snort then say: _“You seem to be managing just fine”_ before their telepathic conversation cut off.  
  
Emma’s right eye twitches then she sighs. She was going to have a long telepathic conversation with the chief of surgery _then_ the board when this was over. “Mrs. Hardy.” The woman abruptly stops sobbing. “You voluntarily brought in your daughter so we legally cannot stop you from taking her home. _However_...” She adds quickly, “I suggest you listen to reason and allow us to help your daughter. We have one of the best mental institutes in New York—”  
  
“This isn’t even a mental institute! It’s a hospital!”  
  
“It’s both.” Emma glares at the woman who shrinks back. “The specialist, Doctor Strange, will be visiting in two weeks. That’s when we’ll have all the details of—”  
  
“You expect me to leave my daughter here for two weeks then base her entire stay on _one man’s opinion_?!” Her voice goes up so many octaves the doctor cringes. “Why can’t I just bring her back in two weeks?”  
  
“Unfortunately, we don’t know the exact date Doctor Strange will visit.”  
  
“Then I’ll bring her back in a week.”  
  
“We’d still need to do primary tests.”  
  
The woman lets out a frustrated growl. “I’m guessing after these tests I’ll no longer be able to take her out?” Emma pauses for a second then shrugs. “Fine. It’s just two weeks.” She nods to herself.  
  
Emma sighs. Telepathy doesn’t equal empathy. If only she could use her abilities on herself to feel anything akin to empathy for others because all this whining and shrieking pisses her off. The girl is leaning against the wall with a blank expression. Her mother walks over to her hugging her tightly.  
  
While she has no problem with using telepathy on random civilians or patient’s friends/family members, even without Grey’s interference/dubious morals Emma would never use telepathy to influence a patient. The sadist within enjoys watching patients suffer the old fashion way; it was the main reason she took this job.  
  
Another reason Emma enjoyed this job was the precise moment the shit hit the fan. She watched the woman hug her daughter sobbing.  
  
Emma shook her head. Lydia Hardy made for one convincing actress, her crying needs work, but any non-telepath or empathetic individual could get swept up in this sob story.  
  
But what of poor Felicia? Unaware of the web of lies her mother is weaving.  
  
↕ ↕ ↕ ↕  
  
“Mr. Howlett, Ms. Howlett—”  
  
“Kinney.”  
  
Doctor Jean Grey looks up from the clipboard at the black-haired teen slouching in her seat, she blinks at the girl then smiles. “My mistake, Ms. Kinney...” She amends, “what made you change your mind? I believe your exact words were: _‘it’ll be a cold day in hell before I step foot in this shithole willingly_.’”  
  
The man nudged his daughter who growled. “I wouldn’t call this willing...” She mutters then he nudges her again. “I figured it was the mature thing to do.” With a fierce scowl, she replies in a way that is most definitely rehearsed. “If I hope to become a productive, _well-adjusted_ member of society I need to control my temper and not let it influence my actions.”  
  
As unprofessional as it probably is, Jean gapes at the girl. In all her years working here, she has not once heard anything like that come from a patient’s mouth. It sounds like something she paraphrased straight from a psychologist. According to patient records Laura ~~Howlett~~ Kinney was a frequent visitor of behavioral clinics and youth detention centers around the tri-state area (also in Canada for unexplained reasons).  
  
Laura recently came [referred] to AIM for something called _oppositional defiant disorder_. Jean never heard of it, no one did, but anything underlined three times on paper was worth looking up.  
  
A dictionary was not required because Jean discovered what “oppositional defiant disorder” truly meant during Laura’s first visit. The black-haired teen went out of her way to make the staff’s day a living hell. It was good fortune Emma was off that day. Jean lost track of how many people she telepathically convinced to either not quit or not murder the girl.  
  
Three weeks ago was when that happened yet, today, staff members were on edge when they saw her. Luke, who truly was a godsend, all but dragged the screaming girl off the premises. Luke and Laura nodded to one another when they passed down the hall earlier. Apparently a weird, mutual level of respect formed between those two.  
  
Contrary to popular belief AIM is not a prison. There is no invisible force within the hospital keeping patients against their will, the only thing keeping anyone here are the loved ones that brought them in. However, when you become a danger to the hospital not even your loved ones can keep you here.  
  
Laura seemed significantly calmer this time around so Jean figured Luke’s assistance would not be required. It was a good idea having him on standby just in case. Jean clears her throat. “Alright. Has anything changed since our last encounter?”  
  
The pair exchange glances. “Nothing of significance. She told me her hair grew three centimeters in that time frame.” As Laura nods in agreement, Jean blinks then nods slowly. “But we need documentation.”  
  
Jean opens her mouth but Laura interrupts, “if I am ‘crazy’ or whatever I need proof and if I’m ‘not’ I’ll need proof of that too.”  
  
↕ ↕ ↕ ↕  
  
A good old-fashion mix up brought Jessica Jones to AIM. _Jessica_ is such a common name and Jones is an incredibly common surname. The likelihood of meeting a handful of people with either the same surname or same given name is exceedingly high. Although possible, it is less likely to meet someone else named Jessica Jones.  
  
Jessica knew multiple people in her high school also named Jessica. Hundreds of unrelated individuals had the surname Jones. Her school had another Jessica Jones, a junior, who was probably walking around scot-free and batshit insane while _she_ was in this “teen mental issues” wing of the hospital. A place potentially designed to _cause_ a mental illness (or several) as opposed to treating any.  
  
Being stuck here only has one perk and that was one of the security guards. Jessica first laid eyes on him when he was carrying some shrieking, thrashing broad outside the building. He’s tall, funny, _kind_ , irritatingly attractive, built like a brick shithouse, has a goofy catchphrase and lights rooms with his incandescent smile. She didn’t even mention his ass. An ass synonymous with perfection beneath his black uniform pants (probably out of them too). Ten out of ten, definitely someone Jessica wouldn’t mind breaking her pussy off. Hardcore masturbatory fantasy fuel: raking her nails down his chiseled contours, letting him just wreck the hell out of her body and vice versa. Proportionately, a guy that big must be packing. _Everything_ about him his huge, except for his head – that’s normal size. Speaking of the head area he’s bald, although that normally isn’t a turn-on it works for him. A mere utterance of his name is a turn-on.  
  
Unfortunately, the reality is she’s only sixteen, and the guy is undoubtedly not a minor in any country. Despite the flirting that ensues he’s too sweet a guy to do anything but flirt. Not that Jessica would willingly cost the guy his job and simultaneously give him a one-way ticket to prison for fucking a minor who is also a patient in a mental institute. Yeah, no, not happening. She likes him far too much for that. ~~On the upside, she only has to wait a year and a half; the downside is a guy that hot will never have a shortage of vying prospects. A year and a half will be too late.~~  
  
Jessica doesn’t have a roommate yet, doesn’t even know how the roommate thing works. Everyone walks around like zombies trudging around inadvertently avoiding each other. All of them are stuck here, it’s no five-star hotel, but they might as well make the most of it. Bitching about the next two weeks won’t make time go any faster. The only exception to the hospital-brand zombification are Sam, whose just a joy to be around, and that skinny blond with more heart than common sense.  
  
She overheard someone (presumably Frost) talking about getting everyone together so they can _discuss_ their troubles in a group setting. Meeting everyone could be cool, but this is the mental illnesses part of the hospital so it could also be traumatic. Borderline innocence stealing traumatic. On the flipside, it might bring everyone out of this annoying funk. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, Jessica can honestly say she has no idea how “patients” are here. People seem to come in and out of this place more frequently than the seasons change.  
  
A couple of chatty nurses gossiped about new “patients” set to arrive.  
  
By her count, a minimum of three teens arrived yesterday: including that loud kid placed in room 110 with Grant – not a first name, not a last name, just _Grant_. Jessica never saw “Grant” and only knew the name because they just put it on the wall. Whenever the nurses brought up the name their voices were filled with disdain. Then again, the nurses never spoke fondly of anyone – even Sam, and only soulless monsters didn’t like him. Jessica’s attitude bordered on misanthropic, yet she liked Sam.  
  
This morning brought in some new faces and took away some old, but she wasn’t paying much attention. _How To Train Your Dragon_ was on television earlier, and everything else got put on the back-burner.  
  
Here for nearly a month she figured they put her on the back-burner. Not only was she erroneously brought in, but she was blatantly the sanest insane person in the area. Three weeks in and she received _one_ evaluation. **One.** She’s seen kids here for three days get more than one evaluation. Admittedly, the place was busy for the past three weeks. They had the screaming girl three weeks ago, the Maximoff twins arrived – separately – two weeks ago, and a different set of twins arrived, _together_ , last week. Plus, that prick Rumlow arrived the same day she did. Considering how nuts that guy is, even if she had half the “ailments” the actual-not-her Jessica Jones had, she wouldn’t need a tenth of the attention Rumlow does.  
  
Her evaluation was four days ago because nothing of interest happened that day.  
  
To be more precise nothing of interest happened to other patients. Perhaps punching out Rumlow kept the doctors away or got her the evaluation in the first place.  
  
Correction – punching him the second time. Technically speaking, it was the second time she punched him _inside the building_.  
  
Originally, they were put in the room together. Jessica didn’t know who the hell thought _that_ was a good idea, and it came as no surprise their arrangement did not work out. Repeatedly fighting Rumlow brought them here, booted his ass out the cushy room, and got her evaluated.  
  
Rumlow wasn’t afraid to hit a girl, meaning he wasn’t afraid to get the shit beat out of him by one either.  
  
Two weeks after fight number one, he hassled the girl Maximoff twin ~~before the boy arrived,~~ Jessica stepped in before Steven “I Hate Bullies” Rogers [that’s what Sam introduced him as] could. Honestly, Twin-A looked like she’d fuck Rumlow up by herself. Her glowing eyes were freaking everyone the fuck out, and the three of them had no desire to see _why_ her eyes were glowing or what they can do. As Steve consoled the twin, Jessica beat the hell out of Rumlow landing her in front of Fury for her evaluation.  
  
Rumlow got an evaluation too. Jessica forgot who evaluated him, but they received a reminder of Rumlow’s eighteenth birthday. Several days before the second fight. Since eighteen is New York’s age of majority, the fucker was promptly and rightfully taken to the adult mental issues wing.  
  
She’d say good fucking riddance, but the adult mental issues wing wasn’t too far from the teen one. Plus, _technically_ Rumlow is still a teenager so if they ever initiate the “group get-together” those assholes might involve him.  
  
↕ ↕ ↕ ↕  
  
Raven Darkholme bypassed the tray of room temperature, potentially _stale_ doughnuts then unceremoniously tossed a folder down onto Irene Adler’s lap jolting the brunette from her half slouch in the chair. Irene adjusts her sunglasses. “Couldn’t find a braille copy.” Raven says taking a seat in front of Irene. “That folder contains information on one Maximoff, Wanda.” The redhead opens the folder, “mental instability, _severe_ codependency with twin brother, paranoid personality disorder, hypochondrias...” Raven shakes her head, “the list goes on.”  
  
“You said Maximoff? Like Max’s daughter?” Irene sighs after a beat of silence, “you know— Charles Xavier’s _‘are they or aren’t they’_ friend?”  
  
“Oh! Well if he has kids then they are definitely not.”  
  
“Not true. I decided to date you even though I knew you had a kid.” Raven blows out a breath. “Furthermore, Charles is an upstanding guy whom I doubt would ditch a guy with children.”  
  
“Something else must be wrong with him then.” Raven mutters, “his kid is here. Maybe the Charles guy might ditch someone with _crazy children_?”  
  
“Might is the qualifier.” Raven scoffs, “I’m changing the subject now. Why are you giving me the folder for one Maximoff, Wanda?”  
  
“Why else? They figured you would understand her ‘situation’” Raven clicks her tongue, “I’m—”  
  
“Air quoting, yeah, I know. When does the boss expect me to meet the Maximoff girl?”  
  
“Right now actually, I am here to escort you.”  
  
“Then lead the way.”  
  
Raven hooks arms with her girlfriend leading her into the TMI wing of the hospital. One of the perks of working here was the freedom to be as grossly affectionate with one another as they saw fit; not that they _were_ , but it was still a nice perk to some day utilize. Besides, they couldn’t be the only employees working/living/dating/boning one another. Fury and Hill are way too close to one another to be strictly professional. Frost and Grey undoubtedly have a hate sex thing going. Claire has to be banging the guy from legal (and his partner). Drew, Morse and Romanoff are attached at the hip. Raven could go on for hours listing names.  
  
Room 108 (the room next to “Grant” and she hoped they don’t have to visit there) has Maximoff, _P._ written on it. Raven’s fairly certain the folder said _Wanda_. Was it a typo? She wouldn’t put it past Jubilation in records to make a mistake like that. Raven honestly thought (multiple times) the girl was a patient instead of a nurse or whatever the fuck the girl was. “Did we have a room purge, Frost conveniently forgot to inform me of, going on?”  
  
“Hm? Yeah, I didn’t know you didn’t know.” Raven sighs. “It happened this morning. Some kids needed Doctor Strange immediately, and Frost transferred them to the hospital he’s in.”  
  
“Does she have the authority to do that?” Irene shrugs. “What else happened?”  
  
“You’ll love this.” Irene grins, “we got Quintavius back.” Raven groans. “Honey, you are not the only one who feels that way. Jean telepathically described the expression Emma had when she saw the ambulance truck with him in it.”  
  
“Never saw anyone willingly want to come back here.” Raven muses, “but you know Frost screwed herself and the rest of us by proxy shipping kids in and out.”  
  
Irene nods, “true, and that reminds me of another return: Logan’s daughter.”  
  
“ _Logan has a daughter_!?”  
  
“I think she’s adopted? Not sure. She’s Sarah’s daughter— Sarah Kinney because I know when I say _Sarah_ it goes straight to—”  
  
“Sarah Rogers.” Raven hums. “Kinney died though, right? Is that why Logan is taking care of her? Were they ever together?”  
  
“Possibly? I don’t know? And how should I know? Logan is your ex-boyfriend, not mine.”  
  
“We were never dating, it was just sex Sweetheart.” Irene shakes her head. “Room 108 says Maximoff, _P_. do we go in or stand out here like jackasses wondering where we went wrong applying for jobs here?”  
  
“Maximoff has a twin so look for another room.”  
  
“You mean to tell me _both of them are here_!?” Irene must have a sixth (Raven-centric) sense because she shrugs when Raven turns to her gaping. The folder did say “severe codependency with twin brother.” It would be hypocritical for Raven to say anything about codependency when she and Irene were pretty damn near codependent.  
  
Irene leans against the wall near room 108 while Raven looks over the other rooms. Why they started from the back is anyone’s guess. Sure, the numbers and names are in braille, but Irene is having far too much fun hearing her girlfriend huff and mutter to herself. There’s a shout of success before Irene feels Raven’s hand tugging her forward. Raven then presses her hand against the wall near room 104. The letters _M-A-X-I-M-O-F-F_ are felt followed by the letter _W_. “I give ‘em three days before the doctors give them one room.”  
  
Raven snorts, “I give ‘em two.” She grabs Irene pulling her to the room knocking but not waiting for a response before walking inside. Inside the room, Wanda Maximoff is laying horizontally on her bed playing with strands of her hair, head and feet dangling off the bed. Irene clutches onto her a bit tighter, and she can’t even blame her. Raven’s pretty sure this is exemplary horror movie shit. “Ms. Maximoff, we’re here to evaluate you.”  
  
Wanda’s green eyes flicker in their direction. What did that folder say about her? Mental instability? She sure wishes they were more specific about that.  
  
Gracefully, the brunette sits up then turns to them. “By all means—” She says softly, “evaluate away.”  
  
“Right.” Raven pulls up the two chairs stacked in the corner. She puts Irene in one then sits in the other. Who put the chairs in the room and why are questions for another day. “Can you tell us why you are here?” Irene’s supposed to handle the Q’s in their Q  & A, but she’s still gripping Raven’s arm.  
  
“They are afraid.”  
  
“Who are _they_?”  
  
Wanda smiles gesturing all around her. Due to the lack of audio, Irene elbows Raven for translation. “They refers to everyone?”  
  
“No.” Wanda shakes her head causing her brown hair to swish with the movement. “Not _everyone_.” She says cryptically, “although you two are afraid of me.” Raven wasn’t about to deny that claim. This girl, whom she hopes is not a mind reader, is scary as shit. Raven’s taken down people four times the size of Wanda with less fear than she has right now. “Those who do not understand use fear and hatred to cope. Fear instead of embracing the idea of non-conformity. Hatred in place of attempting to accept differences.” She tilts her head. “Society needs a place to contain those who do not fit social norms. Therefore, places like this were created and ultimately your jobs.”  
  
“You’re pretty damn talkative.” Raven leans back in her seat. “Is that what you think?”  
  
“Is that not what you think? Why else would you work here, looking for ways to capitalize on fixing people?”  
  
“I’m— _we’re_ here to help.”  
  
“ _Help_? Now that’s ironic. You want to _help_ people fit into a maladjusted, twisted society hellbent on burning outcasts at the stake!” It could be Raven’s imagination, faulty lighting or the three shots of espresso this morning, but she swears Wanda’s eyes flash _red_ briefly.  
  
“Listen, no one—”  
  
“Wants to change me? Explain my ‘mood elevating medication’ or the hundreds of other little pills I’m forced to swallow daily. How is that not wanting to change me?”  
  
Raven and Irene wince. “Alright, _that_ I cannot explain.” Raven begins, “but I personally don’t want to _fix_ anyone. All I want to do is make some kid’s lives a little easier. Society, normalcy—” She stands locking eyes with Wanda as her skin becomes blue, “fuck all that shit. I understand better than anyone what it’s like being different.”  
  
Wanda’s eyes narrow dangerously, “then why not stay that way? That’s your true form, right? Hiding this proves me point.”  
  
Raven grins then her skin resumes it’s previous tan tone. “Why do you think I can’t?”  
  
“Can’t or won’t? You think showing me how you look is enough to get me to trust you?”  
  
“I don’t need your trust. I’d appreciate it, but I don’t need it.”  
  
“Why bother telling me this?”  
  
“You wax lyrical about normalcy, why can’t I? I’ve been ran out of towns, put up for execution, nearly beheaded...” She shrugs, “I figure no one should have to go through what I did.” Wanda folds her arms over her chest. “I can’t speak for everyone, but neither Irene nor myself are comparing you to broken toys or busted engines or something else that can have a few parts removed and replaced to function. No one here, staff or patient will ever be thought of as normal. Society has a problem? Fuck society.” Her skin goes blue again.  
  
“Impressive speech Doctor Adler.”  
  
Raven looks down, “oh, I’m wearing her jacket.” She jerks her thumb at Irene, “that’s not important. You were complimenting me?”  
  
Wanda sighs, “I overheard Doctor Frost say something about leaving willingly?”  
  
“Oh? Legally you can’t be held against your will if you voluntarily checked in.” Wanda grimaces, “you were with me until the end.”  
  
“I don’t know who referred me. One minute I’m talking to me brother, the next I get shoved into a van.”  
  
Irene frowns, “okay we definitely need to look into that.”  
  
↕ ↕ ↕ ↕  
  
Steven Rogers roamed the halls of AIM hospital with a renewed sense of purpose. His mother, Sarah, is a well-known, well-loved nurse in the maternity wing. Everyone knowing Sarah means they know of him by proxy, and because his mother has a never-ending source of stories involving him; another reason could be his semi-permanent stay. That wasn’t the issue at the moment, according to the chatty nurses on the second floor there was an influx of new patients in the TMI wing. Also according to the nurses, when summer vacation hits more parents erroneously diagnose their children in an attempt to get some time away from them. Which is as terrible as it sounds, but not the worst thing that’s happened here.  
  
Ideally, had Steve’s health not been – the way it is, he’d be in the TMI wing full-time instead of in and out. A few doctors seemed to think his stubbornness was a mental issue in itself, never mind his impulsive and reckless behavior. ADHD was what they chalked him up to having. Off the record, it’s alluded to “having a death wish.” Ironic considering damn near every day is a fight for his life. Logically, any guy with a list of health issues longer than a standard grocery list telling assholes off is not “normal.” They threw that word out often. The whole purpose of this place was to _normalize_ him—normalize everyone. ~~It could be mistaken for a cult, except you can wear street clothes.~~  
  
In any event, he frequently took trips to the TMI wing – and since he’s technically a patient there too no one shoos him away. He even has a room they put him in on his good days. The term “good days” varies: it meant anything from not coughing up blood to waking up without a fever to moving freely without his damn back giving out.  
  
The fact that he visits the TMI wing whenever he can does not speak highly of his already questionable mental health.  
  
Doctor Helen Cho’s son, Amadeus, lets him in like always. Amadeus is either sixteen or seventeen and apparently a super genius who received his GED at twelve or something. No one has a straight answer and questioning it only creates headaches. Either way, Amadeus “works” at the security desk most days. No one even bothers questioning _that_ either.  
  
For the past three days he flirted with Sam when he came here – _awkwardly flirted_ but flirted nonetheless. A win in his book because only a masochistic idiot would repeatedly flirt with cute guy way out of their league. Sam (inexplicably) reciprocates so unless he’s humoring Steve, the blond isn’t as hopeless as he figured. Or Sam might be just as bad (or worse) in the flirting department and using Steve for practice. Being attractive didn’t make you a natural born flirt. Besides, there was no way in hell Sam would ever be interested in him. Then again, flirting did not equate to an attraction.  
  
Great, he gets in his head for two minutes, and he’s depressed. Typical. Sighing, he continues his trudge. Patient names are on the wall underneath the door number. That was new, but he hasn’t visited in two days (which meant two days without showcasing his terrible flirting skills). Steve pauses, doing a double take at the names for room 103; more accurately one name – _his._  
  
Everything he owns is in his “usual” room – so moving him closer to the entrance isn’t a problem, the strange thing is now he has a “roommate.” He was the sole tenant of his is previous TMI wing room. Doctors were skeptical about him sharing an enclosed space with another living, breathing, _healthy_ individual. Afraid he’d get other patients sick with one of his many illnesses. Most of which are non-transferable.  
  
Above _Rogers, S._ is _Reyes, R_. The names are written alphabetically and although room 102 has an occupant there is no name. Steve only knows someone is in that room because he’s seen glimpses of their shadow flitting about. He’s also heard whispers when he put his “good” ear to the door. The chatty nurses have nothing to say on the subject, which is both rare and suspicious. Doctors say the room is unoccupied yet fail to specify reasons they’re keeping an empty room locked.  
  
Whoever is in there never leaves (not even to use the restroom) and because the staff feigns ignorance, no one enters. How does this person _eat_? Does this person _need_ to eat? So many questions need answering!  
  
He’d ask his mom, but he doubts she knows. Asking her to ask someone else might get her in trouble. With his medical expenses, he can’t afford to get his mom fired. His medical expenses cause his mother unnecessary stress. They had to rent out their apartment and put all their things in storage. His mother works two jobs, sleeping in his “main” room on her days off.  
  
She’ll never admit he’s nothing but a burden to her.  
  
He hasn’t stepped one foot outside this hospital in over two months! When he thought they were delivering good news, two weeks ago, he gets assigned to the TMI wing. ~~It became apparent, upon entry, he wasn’t right in the head; gauging how much was another story.~~ Plus, they needed his mother’s approval for residence in the TMI wing. _Or_ they went over her head. Steve isn’t sure.  
  
Come to think of it, he never had an evaluation or anything like that since getting assigned. Every TMI based test took place in his “main” room. If his name is on the room, it must be official now. The only difference is: even after the evaluation from that Doctor Strange guy, he can’t leave.  
  
He opens the door to his shared room then walks around. It’s empty, and he’s a little bummed about his roommate’s absence.  
  
Steve walks over to one of the beds and sits on it, staring through the “window” at room 102. The blinds shift and he springs from the bed. No one wants to tell him what’s going on there? He’ll find out himself. Cautiously, he exits his room then walks across the hall to room 102. He looks around the empty hall then puts his hand on the handle. Taking a deep breath, he presses on the handle and gasps when it lowers.  
  
_The door is unlocked!_ His mind unhelpfully supplies the obvious, while he stands stock-still. _Why is the always locked door not locked right now!?_  
  
(Physically) Shaking from his stupor, he slips into the room.  
  
The second he turns around he’s slammed against the wall. He’d gasp for air if it weren’t for the forearm against his throat and a knee on his sternum. “Who sent you here?” A gruff voice asks.  
  
“ _No one_.” Steve rasps.  
  
He’s pressed against the wall for two more seconds before he’s released, collapsing into the mystery patient’s muscular arms. Ignoring the awakening of a manhandling kink, he looks up at the attractive sepia-toned, heavily tattooed teen glaring at him.  
  
Blood’s flowing all over his body right now: the primary locations are his cheeks and his cock.  
  
Fortunately, he can blame his flushed face on his poor health and not his impending arousal. ~~Won’t be able to explain the boner though.~~  
  
The guy loosens his grip and Steve watches him walk over to the door locking it. “I’ve seen you around.” The teen looks over his shoulder, “you sure took your sweet time.”  
  
“Y-You were waiting for me?” Steve sputters.  
  
The teen scoffs. “You were the only one who gave more than a fleeting glance my way.” Shrugging, he walks back over to Steve towering him. ~~It’s as intimidating as it is arousing.~~ “You shouldn’t be so reckless.”  
  
“You’re lecturing me _now_?”  
  
A resonating chuckle escapes his mouth, “cute and mouthy. Makes for an interesting combination.”  
  
Steve’s tinnitus must be acting up because he did not just get called _cute._ “Why can’t you leave?” He asks. Changing the subject prevents future embarrassment from mishearing an undeserved compliment.  
  
“Who says I can’t leave? Who says I _don’t_ leave?”  
  
“I’ve never seen you outside this room. From inside I’ve only seen movements, nothing substantial. The doctors pretend you don’t exist! Your name isn’t outside the door.”  
  
“Why would my name be out there?”  
  
“All the patients have their names outside the door under the room number. It’s written surname, comma, first letter of given name, then a period.”  
  
With a nod, the guy turns around and starts rummaging through things. Steve vehemently attempts beseeching his self-control and not ogle the ass in front of him – he fails spectacularly. The constant moving doesn’t help matters.  
  
After a series of thumps and swears, a cry of joy is heard. The guy pulls himself up then puts a red marker in Steve’s hands. “For the record, I leave all the time and much to my dismay it happens on the days you aren’t around.” Steve gulps. His tinnitus is working overtime today. “The secrecy lost its appeal.” He licks his lips smirking when he watches Steve’s throat bob.  
  
He grabs Steve’s hand then opens the door. They walk into the empty hallway, but that doesn’t matter. Uncapping the marker, the teen writes _Bradley, I._ on the top row.  
  
↕ ↕ ↕ ↕  
  
Since his last visit to AIM there have been few changes in personnel. The kids, however, are all new – the ones he saw in passing. He recognizes the short, _angry_ , pale, green-eyed girl with the black hair from a different institute; though she seemed significantly less pale this time. To be more precise he remembers her unnaturally sharp nails and the right hook delivered to his jaw that aches at the mere memory.  
  
The place itself hasn’t changed an iota. Still with the drab ten rooms. Still with the misguided attempts at “healing.”  
  
His roommate “conveniently” stepped out before his arrival. Assuming the policy changed as much as the place did whoever _Khan, K._ was is in the middle of an interview. He’s either a few minutes from meeting them or a few minutes from relocation.  
  
Comic books, dictionaries, pamphlets and textbooks adorn the bed against the wall. A whiteboard reading: _‘day thirty-two of who ~~the hell~~ knows anymore’_ with a series of tally marks next to it, is also on the bed.  
  
Sharing the room with a fellow intellectual is a nice surprise. Every roommate Quintavius Quire ever had bored him to tears with their stupidity.  
  
The door opens suddenly and a girl steps inside. When they lock eyes she shrieks. Before today, Quintavius could proudly say no girl’s ever _shrieked_ upon seeing him for the first time.  
  
A loud thud snaps his head to the floor where several books fall. Sighing, he gets up from his semi-comfortable position on the floor to pick up the fallen books. “Thanks.” She says with a grimace, “I didn’t mean to scream, I didn’t expect anyone...” She takes two backwards steps out the door then cranes her head to the right. “Oh.” She says softly then comes back in the room. Clearing her throat, she extends her right hand. “Kamala, nice meeting you.”  
  
He takes the hand shaking it. “Quintavius but you can call me Quentin.”  
  
“Cool, I like your hair Quentin.” She beams. He’s received enough gibes about his hair to know a sincere compliment when he hears it, and that was before he dyed it pink.  
  
“I like yours too.” Kamala’s umber locks beautifully frame her light brown skin.  
  
“Check this out.” She bounces over to the bed and Quentin follows suit. She straightens out a piece of paper with names written on it. “It was in the ‘library...’” She says with a frown, “I think someone listed all the patients and their reasons for being here.”  
  
Quentin glanced down at his name near the end. _Quire, Quintavius Quirinius – 13; 17/09/2001. [_ ~~ _None._~~ _Room_ ~~ _102_~~ _106_ _w/Khan, Kamala.] Current issues: narcissistic personality disorder (unfathomable), antisocial tendencies (severe), sociopathic/psychotic tendencies (see if having both is possible), manipulative tendencies (limitless), oppositional defiant disorder (extreme), schizophrenia (possible?), conduct disorder (hell yes), generally destructive (check)._  
  
If this was how the staff viewed him he was going to have fun.  
  
He glances at Kamala frowning. “I take it you don’t agree with what they think?” She turns her frown on him. “Let me take a look. You can look at mine.”  
  
_Khan, Kamala – 14; 19/04/2001. [Room 106 w/ ~~None.~~ Quire, Quintavius Q.] Current issues: gender dysphoria/gender confusion (??), attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder (extreme), obsessive compulsive disorder (possible), schizophrenia (possible), delusional disorder (intense), adjustment disorder (…), impulse control issues (very much), avoidant personality disorder (moderate)._  
  
Quentin whistles, “they painted you in a positive light compared to me.”  
  
Kamala scrunches her nose adorably. “I don’t even know what some of those things are.”  
  
“You’re not supposed to—” He blinks, “that’s why you have the books.”  
  
She nods. “I’m going to do some research.”  
  
Quentin grins, “I like the way you think. Mind if I help?”  
  
“Not at all. I could use some assistance.”


End file.
